


You Know the Answer (So Scream It Out Loud)

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Banter, David Tennant - Freeform, Dialogue Heavy, Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I Blame My Beta, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I wrote this for myself, M/M, Michael Sheen - Freeform, Pointless, QI, Quiz Shows, Self-Indulgent, Silly, The Chase, University Challenge, Would I Lie to You?, but you can read it too, only connect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: “Between us we have 12,000 years’ first-hand knowledge of all of human history. Ithinkwe can manage a few silly quiz shows.”This is apparently what happens when Crowley convinces Aziraphale to watch a bunch of British quiz shows with him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 147





	You Know the Answer (So Scream It Out Loud)

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I can't idly wonder what Crowley and Aziraphale watching Only Connect together would be like without my beta being the most skillful enabler and all but strong-arming me into writing this fic. So thanks, Katie <3
> 
> This is purely a work of self-indulgence, but folks in the Ace Omens discord server also seemed into the idea, so y'all get to read it too, if you want.

“I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

Aziraphale launches himself through Crowley’s front door without preamble as soon as it’s open. Crowley doesn’t bother to act offended or put out.

“Because it’ll be fun.”

“Fun?” Aziraphale asks, spinning to face Crowley in the entryway, hands wringing. “Fun is magic tricks, a good book, or sushi rolls. _This_ is—”

“A different kind of fun.”

“— _television_ ,” Aziraphale finishes.

“It doesn’t bite, you know.” Crowley lets himself smile. “It’s just radio with pictures. Or theatre on a screen.” He leads the way through his flat, stopping off in the kitchen for wine.

“But there’s so _much_ of it. Hundreds of channels, thousands of things to watch, and most of it absolute tosh. I don’t want to become a couch tomato.”

Crowley opens his mouth to correct him, but decides to let that one go. He passes two glasses to Aziraphale before grabbing a wine bottle in each hand.

“What’s sitting on your sofa all day and all night reading every book ever written if not being a couch tomato?”

“Reading is different,” insists Aziraphale as he gingerly settles himself on Crowley’s sofa. He puts the glasses on the coffee table and impatiently gestures for the wine.

“How so?” asks Crowley, handing over the bottles.

“Reading is active. You engage with a book. It makes you think, rather than leaving you mindless.”

“And you can’t engage with a television programme?”

“Well, I—that is—from what I’ve—”

“You’ve never watched TV in your immortal life, have you?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Never saw the point.”

“So let me show you the point.” Crowley collapses on the sofa next to Aziraphale and picks up the remote control. “Now pour the wine and shut up for five minutes.”

As Crowley begins flicking rapidly through the channels, Aziraphale pours them each a large glass.

“What kind of thing do you fancy?” asks Crowley.

When no answer is forthcoming he turns to look at Aziraphale, who shrugs.

“You don’t need to know any shows. Just give me a genre, something to work with.”

Still Aziraphale remains silent, sipping on his drink.

“Are you just being a stubborn bastard now?”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows slightly—answer enough, for Crowley—before looking pointedly down at the pocket watch now resting in his hand.

“Oh for—I didn’t mean it _literally_ , angel.” Crowley rolls his eyes.

When he turns back Aziraphale looks him in the eye seriously, lips pursed. He snaps his watch closed and lifts his glass.

Crowley sighs, mutes the television, and stares down at his own watch. After a silent four and a half minutes he looks back up at Aziraphale with raised, questioning eyebrows.

Finally, Aziraphale opens his mouth to request, “Something _engaging_.”

After a moment of thought, Crowley nods to himself and switches the channel to Dave. “Quiz shows.”

“Quiz shows?”

“A competition where people get asked a bunch of questions.”

“Questions about what?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs. “Anything, everything. Sometimes there are topics, sometimes it’s general knowledge. Depends on the programme.”

“And what, you think _we’ll_ know the answers?”

“Between us we have 12,000 years’ first-hand knowledge of all of human history. I _think_ we can manage a few silly quiz shows.”

“If you say so.”

“Even if we don’t, it’ll _make you think_.”

“Fine, good.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes as he adjusts himself on the sofa, sitting even more primly than seems possible. “Is this it, then?” he asks as he nods towards the screen.

Crowley turns to see a flash mob dancing at a train station. “No, this is an advert for a mobile phone network. Not the best part of television, honestly.”

“I don’t know, it seems rather jolly.”

A smile flickers across Crowley’s face. “So you like TV already, huh?”

Aziraphale side-eyes Crowley briefly before wiggling his shoulders and raising his wine. “We’ll see,” he says into his glass.

When the adverts finish, the show that starts is Pointless. It’s not Crowley’s favourite, but he thinks it’ll be good to ease Aziraphale in. While they introduce the contestants and talk rubbish, Crowley explains the general idea of the programme.

“They’ve asked 100 people to name as many things in a certain category as they can, and the objective is to come up with one that no one else named—to get a pointless answer.”

Aziraphale nods. “Sounds easy.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The first category is countries in Asia.

“So I have to name an Asian country so small and obscure no one else will have thought of it?” asks Aziraphale as his brow creases in thought.

“Exactly. Like Timor-Leste.” Crowley throws his answer down promptly. Part of an island a stone’s throw from Australia and the southern most country in Asia… surely 100 people forgot about it?

“Guzgan,” is Aziraphale’s answer. He gives a little nod and seems pleased with it.

Crowley frowns. “I don’t think Guzgan has existed since the 11th century, angel.”

“Exactly. No one will guess it.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a smug little smile, and why had Crowley thought this would be a good idea?

“It’s not a country in Asia _now_ , though, so it won’t count.”

“Well it should.”

Sure enough, when they get around to revealing the answers, Guzgan is not listed among them.

“I don’t like this one,” complains Aziraphale.

“You have to play by the rules they set, angel, not make your own up.”

Aziraphale pulls a face at Crowley. “It’s _very_ strange hearing you talk like that, dear.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, pulling a face of his own. “I didn’t like it either.”

The next category is award shows, and Aziraphale immediately throws up his arms in frustration.

“I don’t _care_ who’s won an Oscar for best actress since 1970.”

“Some of the questions will be modern popular culture. You need to learn to keep up with the times.” Crowley thinks for a moment before deciding on, “Marlee Matlin.” He’d loved _Children of a Lesser God_ and is fairly sure she’s won some award or another for it.

“But I don’t know any,” says Aziraphale.

“You must have heard of some actresses. I _know_ you’ve been to the cinema before. Just choose one you think was so good she’d’ve won an award for it.”

Aziraphale sighs before choosing, “Katharine Hepburn.”

“Good choice,” Crowley reassures him, even though he’s pretty sure most of her films were before 1970.

Neither of their chosen actresses come up, and the show only lists six of the nine pointless answers.

“We win,” declares Crowley.

“What, how?”

“They neither confirmed nor denied that the answers we gave were pointless, therefore they were pointless.”

Aziraphale gives a confused little shake of his head. “How does that work?”

“It’s my rules.”

“But I thought we were following their rules?”

“We are, until the don’t give us all the answers. The we follow my rules.”

“And by your rules...”

“We win.”

Aziraphale’s lips thin while he considers. “Fine,” he concedes.

Crowley smiles.

The next category is musicals, specifically naming the colours of Joseph’s technicolour dream coat, and Aziraphale is not impressed.

“It was _one_ colour. Burgundy. I know, because I was _there_.”

“I don’t think that’s in the song, though, angel.”

The next round on British national parks doesn’t go well either.

“The South Downs!” cries Aziraphale before turning to Crowley to whisper conspiratorially. “I _do_ so love the South Downs.”

But then the man with all the answers on the programme says they won’t accept the South Downs because at the time of recording it wasn’t yet officially a national park. Aziraphale crosses his arms angrily over his waistcoat and doesn’t speak again for several minutes. When they reveal all the answers and it turns out none of the answers are actually pointless, Aziraphale huffs.

“What’s the point, then?”

“There isn’t one,” says Crowley. He’s enjoying Aziraphale’s discomposure more than is maybe advisable. “It’s point _less_ , yeah?”

Aziraphale groans.

The last round sees the final team choose between three categories: Shakespearian characters, Wimbledon, and Elvis Presley.

“Shakespearian characters!” The words burst loudly from Aziraphale. “Choose Shakespeare, you cowards!”

Crowley twists around in his seat next to Aziraphale, eyes wide, to face him completely. The team choose Elvis Presley and Aziraphale’s bluster deflates in a huge sigh.

“More wine, I think,” says Crowley as he tops up their glasses.

They drink during the last round and while the adverts play Crowley carefully avoids asking Aziraphale if he liked Pointless. Next up on Dave is Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown. Crowley is very interested to see what Aziraphale makes of it, and doesn’t think he’ll be _quite_ as frustrated.

It starts off rocky. Aziraphale smiles at the word jokes in the introduction and even titters about an inflatable doll taking someone’s breath away, but he’s lost at the condiment-dispensing bra. He brightens again when one of the contestants produces an enormous bar of chocolate and rummages in his jacket pocket before triumphantly waving a few squares of his own.

“Is this a quiz show or a chat show?” asks Aziraphale as he nibbles on his chocolate. “Tell them to get on with it.”

“This one is honestly a bit of both. And I can’t tell them to get on with it—it’s all pre-recorded. It’s not theatre.”

“It’s certainly a farce.” With that Aziraphale pops the rest of his chocolate into his mouth and takes a large swig of wine.

The guest in dictionary corner mentions internet slang, specifically ‘YOLO’ and claims it means ‘You Obviously Like Oranges’. Crowley huffs a laugh into his wine glass, but Aziraphale looks thoughtful.

“Is there an equivalent internet slang for pears?” he asks.

Crowley bites his bottom lip, not wanting to wipe the almost hopeful look from Aziraphale’s face.

“POWP,” says Crowley with a straight face. “Stands for Pretty Obsessed With Pears.”

The smile Aziraphale gives him is beaming, and though that internet acronym didn’t exist a few minutes ago, Crowley is certain millions of people are suddenly using it right now.

Another insight from dictionary corner is the word ‘anatidaephobia’, which they learn is the fear that somewhere, somehow you are being watched by a duck. Aziraphale chuckles and swigs his wine, but Crowley’s eyes narrow as he glances slowly around the room.

When the first team finally start picking their letters, Crowley explains the game.

“They choose nine random letters, then you have 30 seconds to come up with the longest word you can using those letters.”

“Ohhh.” Aziraphale’s face lights up with joy.

“Yes, I thought you’d like this one.”

The letters are N E I X L U M N D. Aziraphale misses the countdown entertainment of the host’s stunt double doing some fire throwing, as he has his head bent over the pen and paper suddenly in his lap.

“Five. Lined,” says Crowley when the time is up, knowing Aziraphale will have done better.

“Seven. Unmixed.” But Aziraphale sounds disappointed.

“You beat me,” Crowley reminds him.

“But it’s not nine, is it?”

“Nine letter words won’t always be possible, angel.”

“Well they should be. Can we use other languages?”

Crowley just shakes his head fondly.

Seven is the best anyone on the programme does.

Next is a numbers round. Using six random numbers contestants have to calculate a randomly generated three-digit number. Both Crowley and Aziraphale are terrible at it, and instead take the opportunity to focus on their drinks.

Before the adverts there is an anagram puzzle that reads ACESPANK with the clue ‘give it a toss’. Crowley has barely begun laughing when Aziraphale shouts out the answer.

“Pancakes!”

Aziraphale goes on to beat Crowley in every round, not that Crowley’s trying that hard, and doesn’t even stop to gloat about it (much). Instead he frowns at the between-rounds skits and banter. He comments on the dictionary corner guest’s obvious rocky relationship with his wife, and when an illiterate uses Shakespeare making up new words to justify his use of the word ‘cubez’ Aziraphale claims, “He does have a point.”

The very last round is the countdown conundrum. A nine letter anagram and 30 seconds on the clock. And at last, someone beats Aziraphale. Barely a second on the clock and one of the contestants buzzes in and declares, ‘Flamingos’ before Aziraphale can figure it out.

“You liked that one?” asks Crowley.

“Yes...” answers Aziraphale carefully, “but there were some very peculiar parts to that programme and I don’t think I’m drunk enough yet to appreciate them.”

“You know the solution to that.”

Crowley lifts himself off the sofa to stretch his legs and fetch more wine while the adverts play.

When Crowley gets back, two opened bottles of wine heavier, QI is just starting. Aziraphale _is_ drunk enough to be dancing slightly along to the theme tune.

With this being a straightforward question and answer show, there isn’t really anything for Crowley to explain to Aziraphale.

“Often the obvious answer _isn’t_ the right one, and they sound a klaxon and you get docked points. QI stands for ‘Quite Interesting’ and I think you get bonuses for sharing weird random facts, but no one really knows exactly how the points work, so...” Crowley shrugs.

“It’s fine, I’ll just assume I win; I’m _very_ interesting,” says Aziraphale as he pours them more wine.

Crowley doesn’t disagree.

The introduction includes facts about toilet injuries and urinating in fonts. Aziraphale slurps his wine loudly.

“This is _not_ interesting.”

“They usually veer between ridiculously silly and fascinatingly entertaining. Get your wine down you and loosen up a little, angel.”

When the first question gets asked, it’s about what animal makes a ‘fuffing’ sound. This leads to numerous jokes about porn and Aziraphale give a small shake of his head.

“I don’t think they’re taking this seriously.”

“It’s often a meandering, entertaining route to the answers. Just enjoy the ride.”

“This is supposed to be entertaining?”

It’s eventually revealed that tigers and weasels are the animals that make ‘fuffing’ noises. A joke about tigers and weasels being ‘stoatally different’ finally— _finally_ —gets a laugh out of Aziraphale, and he blessedly stops complaining and starts enjoying the animal facts and jokes getting thrown about on the show.

They are less answering the questions and playing the game than they are actually learning things themselves. There is a camaraderie between the contestants as well as Crowley and Aziraphale, and they have finished another bottle of wine before they’re even halfway through the programme.

It lasts until the host introduces the next round of questions on astronomy and Aziraphale starts complaining again.

“Well, that’s not fair.”

“What?” asks Crowley.

“Questions on things you literally helped build. I _think_ you’ll have a slight advantage, my dear.”

“What I know and what the humans think they know might not exactly match up.”

Crowley’s proved right on the very first question: _How many moons does the Earth have?_

One of the contestants promptly presses their buzzer and announces, “One,” just before the klaxon blares for an incorrect answer.

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, eyebrows raised in question, but Crowley just shakes his head.

The host starts talking about an asteroid called Cruithne, which was apparently discovered in 1994. He claims it orbits the Earth every 770 years.

“They’re wrong.” Crowley thrusts his glass at Aziraphale in a silent plea for a refill. “I _hate_ hearing humans talk about astronomy when they still have _so much_ to learn about it. Cruithne orbits the sun, it’s just on a very similar trajectory to Earth.” He closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the back of the sofa. “They’ll figure it out eventually, I’m sure.”

A gentle hand cups Crowley’s as a full glass of wine is placed into it. He opens his eyes to see Aziraphale smiling kindly at him.

“Don’t judge them too harshly, love.”

“I don’t—I just...” Crowley trails off, distracted by the rarely-used endearment.

“I know.”

The next question reveals that 90% of the universe is dark matter, and that no one knows where it is.

“Now _that_ is true,” confirms Crowley, brightening in an instant. “Last I knew, the angels didn’t know where it was either.”

“How can the beings _creating_ the universe not know where most of it is?”

“Aziraphale, there was an incredible amount of things to make and we were very, _very_ busy. But someone misplaced the dark matter we were making everything with and...” Crowley holds out his hands, palms up, in a helpless gesture. “The humans think the universe is unfathomably large, but… it’s actually only a fraction of the size it was supposed to be.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Crowley hopes he doesn’t ask _who_ misplaced the dark matter; Crowley doesn’t want to answer that.

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again he looks at Crowley and his lips part, but Aziraphale shakes his head and closes them again. Crowley smiles at him and takes a large sip of wine.

The next question is about the colour of the universe. Apparently humans have analysed light from 200,000 galaxies to determine that the universe is beige.

Crowley groans. “Humans are so dumb! Why are they wasting their time on this?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Aziraphale with a smile in his voice. “I rather like the idea of the universe being beige.”

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale’s well-worn waistcoat and immaculately-kept suit. “Why am I not surprised?”

Aziraphale looks to Crowley, then down at himself, before scrunching his face slightly in mild disapproval and turning back to the TV.

When the host asks how many planets there are in the solar system Aziraphale looks back at Crowley, clearly waiting for his answer.

“Depends on your definition of a planet.” Crowley lifts one shoulder in an imitation of a shrug.

Of course someone gives the obvious (and incorrect) answer of nine, triggering the klaxon. A debate about Pluto ensues and Crowley is highly amused. When someone defends Pluto’s right to be a planet by saying, ‘ _It’s really really big and it goes around the sun_ ,’ Crowley grins.

“This guy gets it,” he says, pointing at the screen.

The host says that if Pluto could be planet then asteroids could be plants too, and in fact they are already known as minor planets.

Crowley only nods.

They’re told that in the year 2000 there were 71,788 known asteroids.

“They’re getting closer.”

“So then, what _is_ the definition of a planet?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs both shoulders this time. “Humans made up the word, not me, angel. It’s up to them to debate it.”

Aziraphale huffs at Crowley’s unhelpfulness.

The next round is more quick-fire questions, and seems to be where Aziraphale _really_ starts to enjoy himself.

When asked what the capital of Thailand is, Aziraphale declares his answer of, “Krung Thep,” confidently over the klaxon at someone’s incorrect answer of ‘ _Bangkok_ ’.

“City of angels,” Crowley says, letting a smile slide onto his face.

Aziraphale’s own smile is inordinately pleased as he gives a little wiggle of his shoulders. “Of course I know that one,” he says.

The next question is about how many brides walked down the aisle last year.

“None, I should think,” says Aziraphale quickly. “That’s a trick question!”

“Of course you know that one.” The affection is clear in Crowley’s voice and he’s happy for it to be there.

Crowley and Aziraphale debate the next question, about the oldest known soup, both having run across people soaking all sorts of things in water before eating it in the very long history of humanity.

“But they said oldest _known_ soup,” says Crowley. “Would they really know their ancestors stewed and ate liverwort on the regular, despite the crippling diarrhoea?”

“On the whole I think they’re more accurate with the history of their own race than they are with the facts of the universe,” Aziraphale points out.

They are both taken aback when the answer is ‘hippopotamus’, this historical soup having apparently passed them both by. Crowley is glad of it, and by the look on Aziraphale’s face, he feels much the same way.

“More grape soup?” asks Aziraphale as he holds up an almost-empty bottle of wine.

The next programme is Have I Got News For You, and Crowley sighs.

“I’m not a fan,” confesses Crowley. “It’s all political rubbish, and the episodes are always old and out of date.”

Aziraphale hums, but watches all the same.

They last five minutes. Neither of them have kept up with politics in the last century or two, finding it too convoluted and immoral, even for Crowley’s tastes. They don’t know any of the answers and they don’t get the jokes. Instead, they mute the TV and continue to discuss the culinary ups and downs of human history.

It’s 20 minutes and mostly Aziraphale waxing lyrical about the discovery of honey later that they’re interrupted by a rumbling sound.

Aziraphale clutches a hand to his stomach. “Whoops. All this talk of food is making me hungry.”

“We can order takeaway,” says Crowley. He glances at his watch. “The Chinese place not far from here should be open. I hear they do an amazing honey chicken.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful! Can I have prawn dumplings, spring rolls, and egg fried rice as well, please?”

“You can have whatever you want, angel,” promises Crowley. He gets a glowing smile from Aziraphale and has to excuse himself to find the menu before his discorporates from the warmth of it.

The takeaway menu—from the restaurant he’s never actually been to—is conveniently on the counter top in Crowley’s kitchen. He pulls out his mobile, quickly placing Aziraphale’s order and adding prawn crackers and a hot and sour soup for himself.

By the time their food arrives the last programme has finished and it’s halfway through the next one.

“Shit, we’re missing The Chase,” says Crowley before shoving an entire prawn cracker in his mouth and unmuting the TV.

“How does this one work, then?”

“People go against professional… quizzers, I guess?” Crowley shrugs. “They get asked the same questions, moving them along the board. The more the contestants get wrong and the professionals get right, the closer they get to being caught. Like a game of chase, yeah?”

“Sounds convoluted,” says Aziraphale around a bite of spring roll.

“It is, a bit. But the the chasers—the professionals—really play it up. They’re like thespian villains and it can be pretty fun.”

While he’s explaining the game a man with an impressive grey and white beard goes through the cash builder round, and ends up with £5,000 to take against the chaser. He opts to take a low offer of £2,000 to give him more chance of winning.

“So, now that large fellow in the suit is going to chase the smiley chap down the blocks?” asks Aziraphale.

“Exactly. See, not too convoluted.”

The first question is on football, which Crowley, Aziraphale, and the contestant get wrong. The second is about the number of digits pi has been calculated to, and though the contestant gets it wrong, he does quip to the chaser, ‘ _Pie has been a very important thing in your life, I’m sure_ ’.

“Oh, I _like_ him,” says Crowley with a laugh.

“Him? Really? But he’s so scruffy.” Aziraphale adjusts his bow tie as he speaks.

“I like sass, angel.” He considers the man on screen. “The floppy curls and smile help too.” Crowley turns to Aziraphale. “Say, have you ever thought about growing a beard?”

Aziraphale’s face scrunches up in obvious distaste. Crowley just laughs.

They both speak French and have enough art knowledge for the next couple of questions to be a breeze. Then they both learn about the endangered big-headed turtle and Alan Carr’s fondness of the Argos catalogue.

The last stage of the programme is quick-fire, with the team of contestants trying to answer more questions than the chaser. And Aziraphale is suddenly on fucking _fire_. He abandons his food, not even wiping the smudge of honey from the corner of his mouth before he starts calling out his answers with no hesitation. Even when he doesn’t have one.

“Red! Penguin! No idea! The Hunger Games—do none of you _read?_ Fork! Pay! Don’t care! Too many! Fox! Napoleon! Fiddler on the— _Les Mis?_ My dear, you are an idiot. Pyramus!—Oh, there might be hope for your bearded hunk yet, dear.”

“So you admit he’s hunky?” asks Crowley, smiling in wonder at Aziraphale while he completely ignores him.

“The sun! The heart! DC, isn’t that a comic book thing? Don’t know! Two! Chess! Never hear—”

“Morrissey,” interrupts Crowley. “Leave the bebop ones to me, angel.”

“Thank you, my dear,” says Aziraphale as they let another football question slip them by.

In only a few more questions’ time it’s the chaser’s turn. Aziraphale rattles through these questions too, but this time if he doesn’t know an answer he glances to Crowley for it.

“Eyes! Wasp!” A glance.

“Twin Peaks,” provides Crowley.

Aziraphale smiles before charging off again.

“Neil Gaiman! June! Charles!” A glance.

A sports question—Crowley shakes his head.

A glance.

Bebop. “Talking Heads,” says Crowley.

“Wood! Pepys!” A glance.

“Frank N Furter,” answers Crowley.

“Mercury! Influenza! Can! Discworld!” A glance.

Crowley shakes his head.

“Police! Poker!” A glance.

“U2,” says Crowley.

A glance.

Crowley shakes his head again.

“Boat! Green!” A glance.

“Elvis Presley,” says Crowley.

“The Philippines! The pope!”

The contestants might have lost, but Aziraphale most certainly won.

“You’re a machine, angel. Maybe we should get you on one of these programmes.” Crowley’s can’t tear his eyes away from the honey still on Aziraphale’s lips.

“Oh, I don’t think so. We do make quite a good team, though.” Aziraphale leans back into the sofa, relaxing a fraction. He licks his lips, finally catching the drop of honey, then turns his attention back to his food.

“We have our weaknesses...” Crowley’s never been a big sports fan and Aziraphale breaks out into a sweat at even the thought of exercise. Though Crowley’s not entirely sure that’s what he’s talking about.

They finish their food during the adverts, snapping away the empty containers. Crowley breaks out his best single malt when the University Challenge theme tune starts up, in an attempt to be a little more highbrow. Not that the wine they were drinking was lowbrow, but… University Challenge feels more like a whisky programme.

It is also possible that Crowley is just already very drunk.

Aziraphale is immediately taken with both the drink and the programme.

“Oh,” he says with an interested wiggle, “they’re _academics!_ ”

The teams are the University of the Arts London vs Imperial College London, so both very close to home with very different disciplines. Crowley settles himself deeper into the sofa, pulling off his shoes and curling his legs up between himself and Aziraphale.

The first question comes: _Metaphorically, a naive or inexperienced person, visible signs of economic recovery, and in Shakespeare’s Othello the monster of jealously_ — and Aziraphale is quick off the mark.

“Green! Oh, I _do_ like this one.”

The bonus questions are on the openings of children’s novels and Crowley is already lost, but it’s obvious how happy Aziraphale is, so he finds himself smiling anyway. With his eyes on the television, one of Aziraphale’s hands absent-mindedly finds its way to Crowley’s ankle.

The next starter comes: _'What is happiness then is activity expressed in virtue, it is reasonable for it to express the extreme virtue, which will be the virtue of the best thing,’ These are the words of which Greek philosopher in his Nicomachean Ethics?_

“Aristotle,” they say together.

Aziraphale smiles so softly at him, that Crowley can’t help smiling back as he stretches his legs, feet landing in Aziraphale’s lap.

The bonuses are on social networking websites and Aziraphale groans.

“I’ve got these, angel; I created most of them.”

Crowley does answer them, but then finds his mind drifting for the next few rounds of questions. Aziraphale’s thumb has started tracing circles on his ankle. His focuses comes back to the room when his ankle is squeezed, and Crowley looks over to find Aziraphale looking back at him.

“French scientists!” says Aziraphale with the perfect amount of excitement.

Eventually, Crowley tunes back into the programme: _Which French chemist refuted the phlogiston theory of combustion by identifying and naming oxygen? He was guillotined in 1794 as a farmer of taxes, despite having helped reform the taxation system._

“Antoine Lavoisier,” says Crowley. “Guillotined in 1794. That wasn’t long after you _weren’t_ guillotined, right, angel? Don’t suppose you bumped into him during your stay at the Bastille?”

The finger Aziraphale traces down the bare sole of Crowley’s foot is answer enough. He snatches his feet away quickly before immediately putting them back.

The next round is music, and Aziraphale turns to watch Crowley as he listens to the first few seconds of the songs on award winning albums. He is pleased to get every album and artist correct, including The Velvet Underground, which the team on the show gets wrong.

“Is that what bebop sounds like?” asks Aziraphale. “It wasn’t so bad.”

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, who is stroking his ankle again.

“I’ll play the whole album for you later, if you want.”

Aziraphale smiles and nods. “I’d like that.”

Some bonuses on Einstein and Tennessee Williams plays, and Aziraphale is still enjoying himself. Then a starter question has Crowley feeling suddenly more alert: _What disposition or state of mind is described as ‘Falling sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud that fosters the droop-headed flowers all and hides the green hill in an April shroud’? These words appearing in an ode of 1819 by John Keats._

“Melancholy,” they both answer.

“You’ve read Keats?” asks Aziraphale, sounding only mildly surprised.

Crowley shakes his head. His voice is quiet when he admits, “I helped him write that one.”

“You _what?_ ” Aziraphale’s hand is a vice on his ankle now.

“It wasn’t simply about rain, angel.” Crowley keeps his face down, his eyes on the empty tumbler in his hands.

“Falling sudden from heaven.” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle and full of understanding. “Crowley...”

“Everyone’s sad about something, right?”

Crowley shrugs as he determinedly turns his attention back to the television. He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him a little longer, until one of the questions finally distracts him.

_Which of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes says of himself that he does ‘murder sleep’?_

“Macbeth,” they answer in unison. Aziraphale with a soft grin and Crowley with a groan.

“Why is it _always_ the gloomy ones? Why don’t they ever have questions about A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Much Ado About Nothing?”

As they briefly get caught up in their habitual debate about Shakespeare’s plays, the awkward vulnerability Crowley’s confession elicited dissipates.

Towards the end of the show time is running out for the teams and the questions speed up, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale little time for talking as they call the answers out over the top of each other. By the end they have no idea which of the two of them won, but it doesn’t matter.

“ _That_ programme I would watch again,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley smiles and says, “I’m glad you liked it, angel,” while giving a mental fist pump.

During the adverts Aziraphale refills their glasses, leaning over Crowley’s feet—still in his lap—to reach the bottle of scotch. Drinks replenished, they debate their thoughts on the host of University Challenge.

“He took the competition, the questions, and his role seriously, which is more than I can say for _any_ of the other programmes’ hosts,” insists Aziraphale.

“But he’s a massive pompous _arsehole_ , angel,” counters Crowley.

The next show to start is Would I Lie To You, and Crowley can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes him.

“If you prefer people taking things seriously you will not enjoy this.”

“Oh dear, it’s not going to be more ketchup brassieres and false teeth, is it?” Aziraphale closes his eyes and wrinkles his brow.

“No, no—” Crowley is quick to reassure him. “—it’s not _that_ stupid. But it’s also not really a quiz show as such. People read out statements, and the other team has to decide if it’s true or not. It’s mostly asking questions and making jokes.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth—no doubt to complain—but Crowley doesn’t let him talk.

“Just give it a try, angel. Don’t take it too seriously, laugh at some silly jokes, and see if you can spot a liar.”

Lips in a tight line, Aziraphale just looks at Crowley for a few seconds.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “I’ll accept its ludicrousness, but I can’t promise to enjoy it.”

“Fair. Now come on, it’s starting.”

The first person to read their card claims, ‘ _I once set fire to my house with a box of fireworks._ ’

“That seems a little far fetched,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley cocks his head to one side, considering the man on the screen. “I think it’s true.”

After questioning the man and finding out he was apparently seven years old when it happened, and after many, many jokes—a couple of which Aziraphale even laughs at—the other team also choose to believe the story is true.

“Ridiculous,” scoffs Aziraphale. “The story doesn’t hold up. What seven year old buys a box of fireworks? He’s obfuscating like nobody’s business.”

When the man reveals the story _is_ true, Aziraphale turns to Crowley, mouth agape.

Crowley shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage.

The next person reads their card: ‘ _When I’m stressed I often take a water-free bath._ ’

This time Crowley doesn’t even need to think about it. “True,” he declares.

“That _does_ actually sound like a fine idea,” says Aziraphale. “Warm, cosy clothes. Maybe even a blanket and a hot water bottle. But without all the bother of wrinkly fingers and getting oneself dry afterwards.” His eyes are sparkling and Crowley can’t look away. “I _hope_ this one is true!”

It _is_ true, and the wide smile Aziraphale turns on Crowley is as warm and cosy as that imaginary water-free bath.

The next round involves a person—Keith—and three people claiming they know him. The man who set his house on fire with fireworks claims he and Keith played a prank together at school. The second person claims Keith was an old teacher he pretended not to know when they bumped into each other. And the team captain tells some ridiculous story about a hawk nicking off with someone’s wig. Crowley’s seen this show enough to discount that one right off the bat.

It’s tricky— _none_ of the stories sound believable. But Crowley has his suspicions.

One person on the show thinks fireworks man is telling the truth, saying, ‘ _He panicked. He knew we were onto him, so he went on a ridiculous riff to throw us off the scent._ ’

“Ahhh,” says Aziraphale, wagging a finger at the screen. “He was obfuscating again… _on purpose_ , to distract them.”

Crowley nods. “Bingo.”

And of course, they’re right.

Next up, someone claims they put a camera on their cat to find out if they were turning taps on. This is another simple one for Crowley.

“Lie,” he says, before the person gets into their story at all.

“How can you know that?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs, not wanting to get into his particular talent for spotting liars. “If the issue’s with the taps then film them instead of wasting time with the cat.”

“That’s true.”

To no surprise of Crowley’s, he’s right again.

The last round has someone claiming they can balance a banknote horizontally on their nose.

“I’ve seen more extravagant party tricks,” says Aziraphale sceptically.

“So have I, but it’s also such a simple, silly thing.” Crowley considers for only a couple of seconds. “It’s true.”

A few minutes later, when the man is balancing a ten pound note horizontally on his nose, Aziraphale turns to Crowley with wide eyes.

“You got them all right. How did you do that?”

Crowley shrugs again. “It’s easy. To adequately tell a lie you’ve got to convince yourself it’s true, first. Most people can’t do that.” What he doesn’t say is that he learnt that from Aziraphale, who it turns out is _very good_ at convincing himself of his own lies.

Reluctantly, Crowley lifts his feet from Aziraphale’s lap and stands.

“I believe I’ve got some tiramisu in the fridge. Can I tempt you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes light up. “Tempt away, my dear!”

Crowley wanders off to the kitchen to find the tiramisu he didn’t buy exactly where he expected it to be.

By the time Aziraphale has a spoon full of tiramisu in his mouth, a luxurious moan on his lips, and Crowley sitting beside him on the sofa a little bit closer than before, the Only Connect theme tune is playing. Crowley is sitting so close, in fact, he can feel Aziraphale’s little shoulder wiggles as he subtly dances along to the music. Thankfully, Aziraphale is too distracted by his tiramisu to notice Crowley’s smile.

During the introduction the host of the show describes the programme as _fiendish_ and Aziraphale smiley wryly at Crowley.

“This should be good,” says Aziraphale. “I’ve a lot of practise with _fiendish_ things.” He waggles his eyebrows at Crowley.

“Please never do that again,” begs Crowley.

Aziraphale, bastard extraordinaire, just waggles them again.

One of the teams is called the QI Elves, and Crowley points at the screen.

“They’re the researches on that Quite Interesting programme.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “a bit of quiz show rivalry, eh? Maybe all the hosts of these shows should be contestants on a one-off special. See how they like it on the other side of the equation.”

“That’s… actually a really good idea. I’d watch the Heaven out of that.”

Before the first round starts, Crowley quickly explains the game.

“Four clues with something that connect them. They’re shown one clue at a time, the less clues they can guess the connection from the more points they get.”

Then, Aziraphale is immediately distracted by the hieroglyphs.

“Oh, how wonderful. I do love a good hieroglyph. Particularly a horned viper.” Aziraphale turns his face to Crowley.

Crowley shakes his head, looking at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. “If those eyebrows so much as twitch...”

They don’t. Instead, Aziraphale smiles innocently and settles himself in closer towards Crowley.

The first clues show a series of semi-circles filled with varying amounts of black and yellow along with different place names. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have any guesses as to what would connect them. When it’s revealed to be the colours of taxis in the places listed, Aziraphale gasps.

“This show really _is_ fiendish,” he says as he scoots forward on the sofa, leaning towards the television with his elbows on his knees.

Crowley takes the opportunity to stretch his arm along the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale.

The second set of clues is a little easier for Crowley. It’s only after ‘ _WASHTUB_ ’ and ‘ _Mockingbird_ ’ that he takes his guess.

“Secret US intelligence operations.”

“Wash tub?” asks Aziraphale.

“Hey, I didn’t _name_ them.”

There’s a pause in which Crowley knows Aziraphale hears the unspoken—

“But?” Aziraphale speaks it.

“But… I may have had a demonic hand in a couple,” admits Crowley.

“Only a couple?”

“Well, I did more work for British intelligence, really.”

Aziraphale doesn’t ask anything more, but his eyes suddenly grow softer as he gazes at Crowley.

“Shut up,” Crowley tells him.

A small smiles creeps onto Aziraphale’s face and he leans back into the sofa, and into Crowley’s waiting arm.

One set of clues is simply a list of names, and it’s when the third one is revealed that Aziraphale gets the answer.

“Ah, they were all part of the Great Train Robbery gang!”

“Don’t tell me you were on the train when it happened,” says Crowley, fully expecting Aziraphale to confirm that he had been.

“Of course not. It wasn’t a passenger train, anyway. I went to the trial, though. It was _fascinating_. The details of the robbery, how much planning and logistics went in to the endeavour, it was all quite remarkable.”

“You almost sound impressed, angel.” Crowley smirks.

“It was fascinating, but it was also _bad_ and _wrong_.” Aziraphale gives a little nod, and Crowley thinks he’s _almost_ convinced himself that’s true.

The first clue of the next set of connections says ‘ _Shot Al Capone_ ’.

Crowley frowns. “Didn’t Al Capone supposedly shoot himself in the crotch by accident at some point?”

The second clue reads ‘ _Crowned Napoleon I_ ’.

Aziraphale nods. “Napoleon certainly crowned himself.”

“Well then, we can certainly claim full points for this one.” Crowley holds up a hand above his head, palm facing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but barely pauses before slapping his own hand against Crowley’s in a high-five.

The next round is much the same as the first, except instead of connections, the clues are in a sequence. To answer, the teams must provide the fourth clue in the sequence.

When the first sequence clues shows different coloured numbers on different coloured backgrounds, Crowley declares the sequence as, “Something sports related—boring.”

The first clue in the next sequence is something both Crowley and Aziraphale are familiar with. It shows ‘ _Matthat >_’ above ‘ _Matthan >_’ and they look at each other, both recognising the names but wondering where the clues are going. When the next clue shows ‘ _Heli >_’ above ‘ _Jacob >_’ they see it.

“Jesus,” says Aziraphale quietly.

“Jesus above another Jesus, technically,” Crowley replies.

“They are doing the genealogy according to Matthew _and_ Luke, I suppose.”

They’re right, of course, but they don’t high-five for this one.

The next couple of sequences stump them, but then one comes along than gnaws at Crowley’s memory. The first clue is ‘ _9th: Run_ ’ and the second is ‘ _10th: Hello. OK. New teeth. That’s weird_ ’ and Crowley _knows_ he knows it. He pauses the TV to give himself time to think.

“What did you do?” asks Aziraphale, looking between the remote in Crowley’s hand and the screen.

“I paused it—I _know_ this one, I just need a minute to remember what it is.”

“But that… that’s _cheating_ ,” says Aziraphale, scandalised.

“Mmm... possibly, but couldn’t it also be cheating to listen to the teams discussing it and figure out the answer from that?” counters Crowley.

“My dear...”

“No one’s going to be checking, angel.”

“Fine! What’s the connection, then?”

“Doctor Who,” says Crowley, happy to have figured it out. “The thing about the teeth is the first thing the tenth Doctor said when he regenerated.”

“Sorry, Crowley, the first thing who said when they what?”

“It’s a popular TV show. I only watched it because a lot of people started telling me I looked like the tenth doctor.”

“And do you?”

“You tell me,” says Crowley, fishing his phone out of his pocket to search for a photo. He finds one and passes the phone to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale takes the phone gingerly in both hands, peering down at the screen. His eyes rove over the picture. His face gives nothing away.

“Well?” asks Crowley.

“He’s cute.” Aziraphale says it easily, a curve to his lips and a lightness to his voice.

“But does he—” Crowley has to stop and clear his throat. “Does he look like me?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s cheeks turn rosy. He doesn’t look up at Crowley as he hands the phone back and says, “I suppose he does, yes.”

They sit in a not-quite-awkward silence for a few moments. Crowley wishes he had a full glass of scotch and wonders when and why they stopped drinking. He can’t stop thinking of his arm, on the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale, and wants desperately to move his hand. To place it on Aziraphale’s shoulder and pull him close. Instead, he lifts the remote and starts the programme playing again.

They don’t fully loosen back up until the wall. A round with 16 clues that the teams need to sort into four groups of four. Crowley doesn’t pause the TV this time, afraid of letting the tension creep back in. They don’t need to, anyway.

Between them they figure out three groups in the first wall: wheels, Cornish castles, and Thackeray novels. Although they know the remaining four clues make a group, they don’t know why until it’s revealed. They repeat the process easily on the second team’s wall, finding parts of a clock, things in a church, and characters from Treasure Island, but again the fourth group is a mystery to them.

“If we found a third person who’s good with popular culture we could make a team and go on the show ourselves,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley shakes his head. “Who’ve we ever been able to put up with except each other?”

Aziraphale flashes him a coy smile and says, “True,” before giving up all pretence and slotting himself right against Crowley’s side, under his arm, and letting his head rest against Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley daren’t even breath, afraid to upset the balance of whatever led to this wonderful occurrence.

Finally, they come to the missing vowels round, which is simple enough that Crowley finds he doesn’t need to explain to Aziraphale that they remove the vowels from various words and phrases, for the teams to then identify.

The first category is ‘ _Moons_ ’, which gives Crowley a slight advantage over Aziraphale and he easily names _Phobos, Keith Moon, Europa_ , and _Sun Myung Moon_.

Aziraphale comes out fighting in the second category of ‘ _Suns_ ’, quick off the mark for _The Sun on Sunday, Sun Microsystems, Sun Tzu_ , and the sneakily re-used _Sun Myung Moon_.

The final category is ‘ _Bruce Forsyth_ ’, and despite Aziraphale asking, “Who’s Bruce Forsyth?” he still manages to get _Nice to see you, to see you; Good game, good game; I’m in charge_ ; and _Keep dancing_.

Crowley finds himself laughing at Aziraphale’s bewildered joy in getting them all correct. He bends forward slightly and his hand grips Aziraphale’s shoulder for support.

“So,” says Crowley when he can control himself again, “do you like watching quiz shows, angel?”

“I think I like watching them with you, my dear.”

Crowley turns his head, now acutely aware of his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and the length of their sides pressed together from knees to shoulders. Aziraphale looks back at him. Even their heads are bent towards each other. They are _so close_. 

“Between us we’ve practically got all the answers.” Crowley’s voice is a whisper.

“Not all the answers,” Aziraphale whispers back. “But enough.”

Aziraphale leans infinitesimally closer and Crowley can feel breath on his lips.

“We’ve got enough.”

Then there is no distance between them. Their lips meet, soft and dry, pressed together gently. Their eyes drift shut and Crowley melts.

It only lasts a few seconds. Aziraphale pulls back a scant few millimetres to speak words across Crowley’s lips.

“It’s getting late. I should go.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to say except, “Okay.”

And then Aziraphale moves, lifting from the sofa and leaving Crowley’s side cold and empty. It takes Crowley a moment to pull himself together before he can stand and follow Aziraphale to the door.

“We’ll do this again?” asks Aziraphale, turning to Crowley as he opens the front door and steps through. “Watch quiz shows, I mean,” he adds with a coy smile.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley leans against the door frame, feeling steadier already. “We can watch quizzes together any time.”

Aziraphale nods, a slight blush beginning to colour his cheeks. “Television isn’t so bad, I suppose.”

“You might even grow to love it, one day,” says Crowley with a smirk.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, eyeing Crowley meaningfully, “I love it already, my dear.” With that he throws Crowley a small wave and a smirk of his own as he walks away. “Good night.”

**Author's Note:**

> I spent far too long researching for this fic, because I take my self-indulgent crack _very_ seriously. Every episode of each programme and all the questions are real. If you want to follow along, get some wider context, or see what I left out, I've included the episodes I used below with links to where you can watch them online.
> 
> Advert ([x](https://youtu.be/VQ3d3KigPQM))  
> Pointless S01E2? ([x](https://youtu.be/nE_8GDU8JNo))  
> Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown S04E03 ([x](https://youtu.be/aRUvIWMoUdg))  
> QI SAE02 ([x](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x72ctgj))  
> The Chase S09E01 Celebrity Soccer Aid Special ([x](https://youtu.be/rKcGy54L9P4))([x](https://youtu.be/91NjjpkJZTk))  
> University Challenge S04E13 ([x](https://youtu.be/bgspygT-A8w))  
> Would I Lie To You? S07E06 ([x](https://youtu.be/jflRZk9V_qY))  
> Only Connect S10E21 ([x](https://youtu.be/IsXL8siRTa8))
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
